


Decaying, Silently

by slire



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Fate, Gen, futility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slire/pseuds/slire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the thoughts of a man who watches worlds die</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decaying, Silently

**Author's Note:**

> Avengers II hasn't come out, so no idea if the Collector is IC here or not.

He is old.

Pinpointing the moment where his existence began is like pinpointing the birth of the universe itself. A more accurate answer would be this: he has always been there. He sails on a great ship anchored to Time and Fate, trailing just behind, waiting. He is the shadow of the universe and goes on preserving it in his own strange way.

Whenever a world spoils or cracks—which all worlds do, eventually—he'll be there to pick up the pieces and add them to his collection.

And he will remember.

(There is comfort in that. But futility, too; frustration of it all echoing like screams from dying stars.)

He is old.

So when emotion rustles through him like leaves in a forest and his heart creaks and swells, he retreats inside himself and shuffles through his collection.

.

.

_This one was buried in an emperor's back._

_That one held instructions on how to destroy a planet._

_This one infected and wiped out three civilisations._

_And that one never learned to scream._

_(Silently, it bars its teeth against the glass as the Collector passes. But it is merely another fragment of the past stored in the endless halls of his ship. The rage of a caged beast—no matter if said beast is a planet swallower—is nothing compared to Fate.)_

.

.

Meaning. Stability. Truth.

These are his legacies. His tragedies. His triumphs.

To serve such harsh masters, he has to give his identity up. His desires, ideals and dreams shrivel up like paper.

It is meant to be.

The Collector attempts to recall a beginning and fails. He knows there was a time before the Collector. A time of a man wandering around without real purpose, fearing and hating and loving. A chaotic existence. Full of noise. He'd been ripe with emotion. He had a name, back then. A family as well. But Fate had eaten it all. Emotion had poured out through his rotten flesh, leaving him hollow.

Surely it is meant to be.

.

.

_This one extinguished a sun._

_That one made the water become liquid acid._

_This one enslaved a species and liberated another._

_And that one still believes she did it for the greater good._

_(After 3000 years, she lies bound to a table in her porcelain white cell. She is vacant eyed and insane, but quiet, kept alive by the machinery in his ship. By Fate.)_

.

.

He has scouts—eyes—everywhere. The number has gone from ten to thousands, scattered about the universe, looking for lice. Asgard is no exception. He has followed Asgard through numerous blood lines. He knows their history of deceit, forbidden love and murder. The games they play are useless to everybody but themselves. Such fleeting, fragile lives.

They summon him. They ask him if he knows of the Infinity Stones. Of course he does. He knows everything that has had an effect on the universe. He waits patiently until they fall into his hands. In the end, they all come to him, whether they want or not.

A male and a female greets him, stiff appearances telling that this is a mission done in utmost secret. He makes them uncomfortable. Greeting him, they are confronted with their own soon-to-be demises. With Truth.

He holds the world aether, feeling raw power dance on the surface of his fingertips. "One down. Four to go." He is stating a fact, but it still makes them wary, thinking he's planned the whole ordeal.

But the truth is this: the Collector doesn't plan anything. He merely waits.

"There's more," the female says. Her lips twist. By her look, this is not a thing done with clear conviction. "A man. He's… He's done terrible things. Especially as of late. He's a traitor. A thief. A liar, and an impersonator. His name is enough to make any Asgardian's skin curl. He is a master of wicked schemes, and his list of crimes is long; long enough to be  _completed_. Let enemies into Asgard. Nearly enslaved Earth. And as we just discovered, impersonated Odin. The All Father. The man who saved him from his wretched race and took him in as his own."

The Collector understands. But he prefers things that have served their purpose in the great order of things.

"Are you certain," the Collector says slowly, "that his story is completed?"

The male hesitates. The female doesn't. "If you don't take him, we will hang him at dawn." A flicker in her eye—a flicker of one who has seen too much in her short life. "I will see to it personally."

"Bring him forth, then."

There is the sound of shackles, dragged. They are fastened around the man's neck. A gauntly, pasty shape. Hair cut, no doubt to dishonour him. Mouth sewn shut. His cuts and bruises are far too imprecise to have been done by a steady, calculating hand. Rage has controlled his torturers. He reeks of chaos. His eyes still burn.

The Collector doesn't worry. The flame will be extinguished, in time.

Surely, surely, it is meant to be.

.

.

_This one was a brick in a mighty wall._

_That one dreamt in flames and awoke to ashes._

_This one hated, and hates still._

_And that one is dressed in silk and gold, but holds no importance._

.

.

The Collector remembers.

_"Please."_

Her voice was shrill, so weak. So unlike what she had been. Words and life spilled from her mouth and down her chin, but it was muted, as it was of no importance in comparison to his quest. She had become a reminder of the past—of fire, and ash, and chaos. She had lost the will to live, and so, withered. A personification of futility.

She looked at him expectantly and waits for him to say something. But he just stared back and said nothing. He sat perfectly still as she died, until her hand went slack in his. Something rustled as she leaves.

He'd added her corpse to his collection the next morning.

The Collector closes his eyes, opens them. And remembers.

.

.

_This one cut their contact for a thousand years._

_That one set a civilisation back three decades._

_And this one has instructions on how to destroy a galaxy._

_And Loki—_

.

.

.

screams.


End file.
